Ode to an octopus
It was like a dear friend passed away and was reborn again. Life is so fragile and every moment is fleeting. This dinner was planned a few weeks ago. It was the birthday of our friend Eduardo and we had planned a feast at Marriott Hotel’s fine-dining steakhouse, Cru. For weeks I had built up the excitement in me to see my long-lost grilled baby octopus. I cherished our lovely moments of joy the last time we were together: memories of a harmonious symphony of smoky herbed octopus tendrils melting in my mouth, beautiful giant red tomatoes complementing it with a hint of freshness. The little rascals were poached slowly in fresh herbs and olive oil before being thrown into open flames delicately perfumed with fragrant wood chips. It had to be one of the most beautiful dishes Manila has ever seen.
The weeks went by leading up to this fateful rendezvous with my little octopus. All we could talk about was that. How we couldn’t wait to see him and even our friends were excited for this encounter. The evening arrived and menu cards were passed around. I didn’t even have to open it. All I wanted was this tiny, delicious marvel from the ocean. The whole table was longing for it. And then a dark cloud of disappointment fell on our table. “Sorry, Madam, we took it out of our menu.”
In my head, I was attending a funeral. “My dearly beloved, here we are gathered today to remember our dear friend, cousin of Paul from Germany, grilled baby octopus. Today, we mourn the death of one of Manila’s greatest dishes, spurned by ignorance, and left as a lonely menu item.” I kid you not. I had tears in my eyes and couldn’t believe that they would do such a thing. I was heartbroken and angry. Angry at myself for not coming back more often to eat this wondrous appetizer, angry at all the clients of the restaurant for not taking a chance on this poor cephalopod, angry at the chef for not pushing it more. More than angry, I was sad. Filled with a grande tristesse that I would never encounter such simple perfection again around these parts.
The waitress, upon seeing my misery, called the chef to come over to our table. Executive chef Mike Brammer is a big, burly man with a joyous face. From the grim reaper of my dear dish he became the bringer of hope and light. With a big smile he explained, “You can just give me a call or e-mail a day before and I can make that octopus for you.” My grilled baby octopus had just risen from the dead! This is what you call five-star service. Where the executive chef can manufacture miracles just to please one ultra-demanding client. Truly elated, as I ate my steak that evening I was already plotting my return.
So where is this all going? Why am I writing an ultra-dramatic recount of a lost dish? Because there is one thing I can’t fathom: Why do Filipinos have an aversion to something as delicious as octopus? Strangely enough, our seas are full of this luscious creature. They are so abundant that fishermen use them as bait. They are extremely low-priced, something ridiculous like P10 a kilo, so fresh they are practically wiggling in your bag. Is it because they think of it as poor man’s food? It’s certainly not because of its un-earthly looks and squiggly tentacles, because squid is widely eaten.
Octopus, when cooked properly, has an incredibly clean taste. It can be eaten hot, sautéed Spanish- or Portuguese-style with some paprika, garlic, olive oil and potatoes. It can be eaten cold in a delicious salad with some fresh onions, Italian flat-leaf parsley, with more olive oil and generous squirts of fresh lemon. Baby octopus can be served whole and for the adult version, tentacles can be sliced thinly to make little ovals of sea goodness, arranged in beautiful symmetry on a plate.
I’ll never forget one evening in Mallorca where my girlfriends and I had dinner in a chic restaurant by the ocean. We were all sun-kissed and the salty Mediterranean night breeze stung ever so slightly on our skin. I ordered pulpo and it was served in such a creative manner. Poached, sautéed in garlic and olive oil, little circles of perfectly tender tentacle sat regally atop columns of firm potatoes. All tinged red with Spanish pimenton. Sprinklings of sea salt made everything glimmer like Grecian ruins in the sunset. In Paris, two delicious octopus experiences have been etched in my gastronomic memories. Alfredo Positano is a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in the Saint Germain area. Their insalata di polipo is heavenly. It’s the height of simplicity — perfectly cooked and chilled octopus, drizzled with bright-green extra-virgin olive oil, fresh lemon juice, parsley and a teensy bit of shredded lettuce. Fresh cracked pepper and sea salt is what takes this dish to divine perfection. I will also never forget the modern geometric gorgeousness of Joel Robuchon’s salade de poulpe. Served in a shallow, square-ish dish, each piece was identical to one another, laid out like a culinary puzzle with no awkward spaces. Tiny gems of red onion, bell peppers, and tomato glistened like perfectly cut jewels. The octopus was melt-in-your-mouth, bursting with flavor, not masked by any strange concoction. The olive oil seemed like it was cold-pressed right there in the kitchen. It was clean-tasting and mind-blowing.
This Ode to an Octopus, reminiscent of John Keats and his Grecian urn, is in hopes of sharing this strange passion with my readers. I truly hope that there will be a “discovery” of this ingredient that is so abundant here so that I may selfishly eat it more often. It would have been nice to use Paul and his psychic fame as an endorser … but like many unfortunate public icons, bright lights and fame led to his demise. So let’s not let his departure go to waste. Honor the octopus. Embalm him in herbs and fresh juices, let him glisten in the finest olive oil, decorate him like Caesar with the freshest leaves and let him be forever etched in our alimentary memory. Hail to the cephalopod!
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You can contact me at Stephanie_zubiri@yahoo.fr.
